


Unspoken Promises

by Spacepolitician



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Emotional Sex, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:42:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27240649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spacepolitician/pseuds/Spacepolitician
Summary: He had grabbed her by the shoulders hard enough to hurt, and gritted out a command, “Don’t die.”She had pushed him off, fisted a rough hand in his hair and kissed him. “I won’t.”And she had kept her promise. He was going to keep his own unspoken promise, too. Except she had disappeared after the end of the war. She had disappeared, taken nothing but her horse, left nothing but a formal note of resignation. She had vanished into thin air, and Auguste was left with an empty hole in his heart so large and dark that it had felt like it would consume him.That was two years ago. Perhaps the hole had consumed him, after all, and he had just been too busy to notice.
Relationships: Auguste (Captive Prince)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Unspoken Promises

**Author's Note:**

> Nobody asked for this, I suppose. But I'm sometimes hot for Auguste and always hot for angst, what can I say.  
> I hope you enjoy this canon-divergence fanfiction in which different wars happen, Auguste lives, is 30, and is a good boy trying his best. :)

Dusk burned plum and purple on the snowy western horizon when King Auguste of Vere dismounted his palfrey in front of a lone, brown cottage deep in the Northern Forests. A thin layer of powdry, dry snow weighed down on his heavy fur cloak. It had taken him over three hours to find his way here from the nearest village where he had ordered his men to station. His guards had, of course, voiced their concern. Rightfully so, Auguste would admit. The cottage was practically located in the middle of the forest, and with the roads vanished under the snow, the detailed directions he had memorised word by word had been of little use. But the kingdom was at peace, at last. And with no arrows or knives following him into the forest, Auguste thought himself and his horse capable of surviving a bit of snow.

This was the last place to which he wished to bring his men, anyway. For all he knew, Auguste himself could be turned away from the door in a matter of seconds.

The rush of wind pierced the silence through the branches of the pine trees. Auguste felt a strange pulse in his throat as he stared at the dimly lit windows. He was here, finally. He was here after two years, for the first time. He was here. Why, then, did he still feel lost?

His palfrey’s unimpressed puff of warm air dragged him out of his reverie. The freezing air burned Auguste’s cheeks as he scratched the horse’s velvety chestnut neck, and weakly smiled.

“Wish me luck, Helen.”

Snow crunched under his boots as he approached the cottage. A soldier for a decade and a king for two years, Auguste had forgotten the feeling of hesitation. So, when he stood before the wooden door and raised his gloved fist, complete paralysis was the last thing he had anticipated. Thoughts howled in his head louder than the wind: Had he any right to be here? Had he any right to be here _at this hour_? He should have sent a letter first, even if out of courtesy. But what if he wouldn’t be welcomed? It had been two long years, after all. What if—

Helen neighed loudly, frustrated from the long journey and the cold weather. Of course, it was too late to return to the village now. Even Helen knew that going through the unfamiliar, snowy forest after dark was suicidal. Auguste could not afford such recklessness. Not anymore.

There was a sudden sound of fumbling inside the cottage. Auguste heard the wood creak, took an instinctive step back, and forgot to breathe. The door opened slowly. A widening stripe of warm, yellow light poured out. The wind crept beneath Ausgute’s cloak and chilled his spine.

An all too familiar pair of green eyes stared at him. They fixed on him under a frown, widened, trembled, and Auguste felt the world around him crush into nothing as if buried under an avalanche. He used to know this face better than his own. He remembered the pale skin, the black hair that was now short, the sharp angle of her jaw. He remembered the battle that had left the deep, horizontal cut across her right cheekbone. He remembered being reduced to a flutter at her smile. And although it should not have had, it came to him as a surprise that with all the fear, pain, and confusion in his chest, he still could not help but to instantly find her breathtakingly, heart-wrenchingly beautiful.

The trembling eyes narrowed to dangerous slits of emerald, and Auguste’s heart skipped far more than a beat from the malaise of doubt and excitement. The furrow deepened on the woman’s forehead with an unstoppable rush of rage. Auguste half-expected her to throw a punch at him. He half- _wished_ her to, because the pain of a broken nose would, at the very least, anchor him to the present. Also, because he half-feared that if she didn’t punch him, she would shut the door in his face, tell him to fuck off and never come back.

“Captain,” Auguste managed to greet, somehow, and his voice came hoarse out of his cold, dry throat.

“Not anymore,” the ex-captain replied with such antipathy that gave her words a vulgar tone.

Auguste cursed himself silently. “Lady Cornelia,” Auguste corrected, “Forgive me for appearing at your door at this hour. I miscalculated the time it would take to navigate—”

“How,” she interrupted, her deep voice almost a growl, “did you find this place?”

“I—,” Auguste blinked, “searched.” He tried his best not to stutter. “I— could leave if— you would be so kind as to give my horse—”

“Am I to turn the fucking _King_ away in the cold of an autumn night?” Cornelia snarled as her fingers clawed at the door frame.

Something in the familiar way in which she cursed consoled Auguste. He knew that Cornelia was, indeed, as deadly as she sounded, but never outside the battlefield. Outside the battlefield, her roughness was only a matter of habit. The familiar way in which she cursed reminded him that Cornelia’s eyes narrowed to near slits more often than not, but she would never turn away from her door a hungry horse and a freezing man, king or commoner.

“You could,” Auguste said, risking a smile, “but I do wish you wouldn’t.”

Cornelia’s chest puffed like that of an angry cougar. For a moment, Auguste thought she _was_ finally about to throw at him the punch he rightfully deserved, but all he received was a wordless noise of frustration.

“Get in,” she said with a sigh, and stepped aside to hold the door open. “I’ll take the poor horse to the stables.”

The breath that had caught in Auguste’s throat came out as a shaky exhale. It wasn’t until he had stepped inside that he realised how cold he had been. The cottage was warm and tidy: timber-framed walls and wooden furniture, with none of the embellishment typical to Arles. The only objects that brought colour to the room were a clay vase of pink heathers, and an endearingly colourful hand-sewn quilt blanket that covered the bed in the corner of the room. Orderly stacks of books sat in the other corner of the room next to a small dining table.

Shivering, Auguste inched closer to the fireplace, standing by a sturdy-looking wicker chair. An old book and a few sheets of paper were scattered on the chair. Auguste could easily recognise Cornelia’s clean handwriting on the papers.

The sound of the door nearly gave him a start.

“It’s so _bloody_ cold,” Cornelia hissed as she shut the door, hung her thick coat, and pulled her gloves off harshly. Luckily for Auguste, her anger seemed to have been redirected towards the weather.

Auguste nodded towards the papers with a grin. “Are you translating epic poetry?”

Pink-nosed, Cornelia snorted, rubbing warmth into her own arms. “I had to find a way to waste all that palace education.”

Auguste chuckled, sniffling a little. “You used to hate poetry.”

“I still do.” Cornelia leaned against the dining table and looked up to meet his eyes. She paused, perusing his face for a long moment. “You look,” she said, hesitantly, “older.”

Auguste smiled. “I _am_ older.”

He saw the remnants of rage in her eyes soften into a solemn scowl. She gazed at him in silence, with one hand clutching the edge of the table, lifting the weight from her left leg.

“Are you hurt?” Auguste nodded towards her knee.

Cornelia did not answer. Her gaze did not waver. “Why are you here?”

“I,” Auguste replied honestly, “wished to see you.”

As though insulted by an unsatisfactory answer, Cornelia’s gaze hardened at an instant. “ _Your Majesty—_ ”

“Please do not refer to me as that,” Auguste cut her off, his words sounding like a plea. He shook his head. “I’m not here as King.”

“ _What_ are you here as, then?” she asked through her teeth.

Her query burned in the back of Auguste's chest. “A friend,” he said, “if you will have me as one.”

Cornelia opened her mouth but was cut off by a violent coughing fit that rattled through Auguste, bad enough that it painfully strained the muscles in his neck and shoulders.

“Don’t you _dare_ die of pneumonia in my house,” she said roughly.

Auguste held a hand to his chest as the coughs began to subside, muttering a winded apology. He felt dizzy. “May I sit down?”

“No,” Cornelia replied, tersely. “Get in the bath. It’s still warm.”

As the rest of the cottage, the bathing room was small, clean, and unadorned. In its corner, a tub was filled with steaming water. Auguste pressed his lips together guiltily, realising that Cornelia must have drawn the bath for herself. Yet, as she left him in the room and closed the door, dizziness overpowered Auguste’s guilt. He shed the cloak and unceremoniously removed his damp garments that felt as though they were painfully stuck to his skin. When he lowered himself into the water, a pained groan left him. He leaned his head against the wall behind the tub, took in a deep breath, and allowed his lids to fall.

His heart felt painfully swollen. He had missed Cornelia with all his soul. And now, lying in her tub, he missed her still.

Auguste was young when Cornelia’s mother had served as Queen Hennike’s lady-in-waiting. The woman’s good character and trustworthiness had soon made her the queen’s confidant, and Hennike loved her dearly. Perhaps that was the reason behind the ruthless assassination of Cornelia’s parents when Queen Hennike was pregnant with Laurent. The queen was so heartbroken by the death of her beloved servant and friend that she had taken the woman’s only daughter under her own care. Auguste remembered it well. The ten-year-old Cornelia took time to mourn her parents’ death, but was quick to recover from the trauma. She approached her new life with no grudge or bitterness. Even King Aleron, who strongly disapproved of the queen’s decision, struggled to find the girl as disagreeable as he wished she would be. Years later, even Laurent, who rarely ever approved of anyone, looked up to her.

Regardless, Auguste was overjoyed at the prospects of a new playmate of the same age. Their friendship was an instant scandal. Auguste was the crown prince of Vere and Cornelia was an orphan, a commoner, and worst of all, a _girl_. The friendship was a horrible taboo in the palace, but Auguste was too young and stubborn to care. It did not take long for the two to become inseparable.

Cornelia excelled in both athletics and academics. In their teenage years, her swordsmanship matched that of Auguste himself, and her marks more often than not surpassed his. They were 16 when they first lay together. The two slipped out of the palace for a midnight picnic by the river, hands full with wine and bread stolen from the kitchen.

“You look beautiful under the moonlight.” It was Auguste who initiated it, almost unintentionally. “I wish I could kiss you,” he said with languid fingers twisting the ends of her then long, moonlit black hair.

Cornelia rolled her eyes, but a grin settled on her wine-flushed face. “You can, if you’ll spare me the flattery.”

By the next day, they were both well aware that, as good as it felt, sex was far too risky to happen often. As stubborn as Auguste was, he was well-aware of his position as the crown prince, and her position which was dependent on his mother’s charity. The next few years passed with them managing to slip in clandestine kisses in empty corridors, or get each other off when they rode far enough into the forest. It was always easy and uncomplicated, despite what their teachers said about the vices of premarital sexual relations between men and women. It felt natural to find pleasure in the other’s body. They were best friends, after all, and what was a little fun between friends away from all the suffocating rules and regulation of the palace.

Auguste remembered smiling into a kiss when Cornelia, pressed against the bark of a tree, shivered and came over his hand. He gave her a few moments before pulling his wet fingers away from her, and raising them to his own mouth.

Her face scrunched up. “That’s disgusting.”

“Is it now?” He smirked and licked his fingers with theatrical obscenity.

In those years, there was a certain joy in their intimacy that filled Auguste’s chest with warmth. A certain joy that he never found in other men and women with whom he lay. All others seemed too afraid to treat him as an equal in bed. Too afraid to do anything but what they thought would please him. With Cornelia, it was different. Sex was comfortable, reciprocal, and joyful. He used to wonder if what they had between them could last forever.

As they grew older, Cornelia began to beat Auguste in sparring sessions three out of five times. Auguste’s pride would have been hurt had he not admired her as much as he did. By 23, she was unmistakably one of the best swordsmen in the entire kingdom. So when the first war broke out with Patras that year, her joining the military was only natural. As the first war began, she joined the Veretian army along with Auguste, served as a prodigious swordsman and remarkable strategist, until she was promoted to captain at only 25, when the second, two-year-long war with Patras began.

The Two Years’ War broke them all, perhaps beyond repair. But Auguste would never forget: Cornelia never left his side during that long, cruel, bloodthirsty nightmare. She had saved his life enough times for him to lose count. Not only had she incessantly kept him alive, but also she had dragged him out of madness during the darkest days of war.

Auguste’s memories of war were far too vivid for his liking. He remembered the bodies, the fires, the sound of metal on metal, metal on flesh, metal on bones. He remembered nights when they had barely survived the day. All those horrible nights through which he had lived because Cornelia had pushed him down on the ground in the tents and Auguste had kissed her senseless. They had left bruises and tugged and pulled because it was a miracle they were both still alive, and so many of their capable, righteous warriors were not.

Auguste had dragged his teeth on Cornelia’s bruised skin and thought if they lived through this, he would never leave her side. In peace, he would return all she had done for him in war. He would give her what she deserved, which was utterly everything he had to give, including his heart, which was already hers for many, many years.

He had grabbed her by the shoulders hard enough to hurt, and gritted out a command, “Don’t _die_.”

She had pushed him off, fisted a rough hand in his hair and kissed him. “I _won’t_.”

And she had kept her promise. He was going to keep his own unspoken promise, too. Except she had disappeared after the end of the war. She had disappeared, taken nothing but her horse, left nothing but a formal note of resignation. She had vanished into thin air, and Auguste was left with an empty hole in his heart so large and dark that it had felt like it would consume him.

That was two years ago. Perhaps the hole had consumed him, after all, and he had just been too busy to notice.

Auguste didn’t know when he drifted into sleep in the comfortable warmth of the tub, but when he opened his eyes, his relaxed muscles ached with the exhaustion of the long, cold trip. The water was still warm, but no longer steaming. He noticed that his garments had disappeared from the floor, and were replaced by multiple folded wool blankets. Next to them was a folded towel and a bar of soap on top of it.

He ran a wet hand over his eyes to fend off the drowsiness, and picked up the soap to wash before the water grew cold. Accustomed to the luxurious, perfumed soaps of Arles, Auguste found it amusing that the efficient, neutral-smelling bar left his shoulder-length hair in tangles. He wondered if that was the reason Cornelia had cut her hair so short. After drying himself with the pleasantly warm towel, he swaddled himself up, layer after layer, in the large blankets that covered his whole body.

He padded out of the bathroom, the tips of the blankets dragging on the floor behind him. Auguste found Cornelia seated at the table with her back facing him. She was hunched over, holding her head between her hands, as though suffering from a headache.

Another wave of guilt rushed over Auguste.

He cleared his throat. “Thank you for the blankets.”

Cornelia started and spun around, as though she had forgotten there was another person in the cottage. She half rose, awkwardly, from the chair but didn’t find a good reason to get up, so she sat back down.

“Your clothes were wet,” she said mechanically, and pointed to the horizontally stretched rope where his garments were hanging. “Give them a few hours to dry.”

Auguste nodded appreciatively. Cornelia’s eyes scrolled down to the layers of blankets that were wrapped around him like a ridiculous cocoon. She was too on the edge to find it comical. Another long moment passed and Auguste’s bare feet began to grow cold on the floor.

“Do you—” Cornelia blinked a few times, and cleared her throat. “Would you like some soup?”

Auguste beamed. “I would love some.”

And as Cornelia almost sprung out of her chair and disappeared into the kitchen, Auguste decided to take a seat on the white sheepskin rug in front of the fireplace, enjoying the close warmth of the flames on his damp hair. Cornelia returned with a small steaming wooden bowl, and handed it to him along with a wooden spoon. Auguste could recognise barley, carrots and potatoes in the bowl, but the rest of floating pieces were mysteriously unidentifiable.

“Don’t expect it to taste good,” Cornelia said, rather defensively. “I did not expect a guest.”

_A guest_. That was more than enough to relax Auguste’s shoulders and bring a hopeful smile to his lips. He looked down at the watery soup as though it was the best food offered to him in decades.

“Thank you.” He brought a spoonful of soup to his lips and blew on it.

Cornelia stood there awkwardly for a moment before slowly lowering herself to sit on the corner of the rug, a good meter away from Auguste, and drew her knees up to her chest, leaning against the wall. They sat in silence for a few minutes as Auguste ate the soup. It tasted bland, but nothing too offensive. And regardless, Auguste would have happily eaten the whole thing even if it tasted like snake venom.

It was Cornelia who broke the silence, carefully. “Are you here alone?”

“A few guards are stationed at the village,” Auguste replied. “They wouldn’t let me leave Arles on my own.”

“Why did they let you come here at all?”

Auguste lowered the half empty bowl onto his blanket-covered lap. “Paschal ordered, rather incessantly, that I take a break.” He lowered his head and tugged a stray strand of hair behind his ear. “I suppose I understand his concern. This is my first break since my coronation.”

Cornelia’s head shot up. She looked at him with narrowed eyes. “Your coronation was two years ago.” Her frown deepened when Auguste nodded. “And before that there was two years of war,” she said with a huff. “That explains a thing or two about your face.”

Auguste raised an amused brow. “What is wrong with my face?”

Cornelia gazed at him for a moment. “You look so... _tired_.”

“Oh.”

Auguste gave her a lopsided smile. He had no excuse. He knew that she was right. He did look tired. He wasn’t blind to the hollowness under his eyes, and the fine lines around the corners of his lids. He had spent enough time indoors that his complexion had lost all colour and turned almost as dull as the paperwork he had been buried under. Worst of all, sleep had become a great struggle: he either could not fall asleep, or would wake in the middle of the night in a cold sweat and could no longer return to bed.

The truth was, he did not look tired. He _was_ tired. Incredibly tired.

“So your idea of kingship is working yourself into an early grave?” Cornelia said, acerbically.

Auguste could not help but smile. This was the exact same line Laurent regularly used to scold him. He wondered if either Cornelia or Laurent knew how alike they sounded sometimes.

“I am taking a break, aren’t I?” He said, eating another spoonful of soup as a distraction. “This is not bad at all.”

Cornelia would have none of it. “Auguste,” she said, her voice urgent, and Auguste froze. He had forgotten the sound of his own name in her voice. Cornelia’s gaze was deadly serious this time. “What are you doing here?”

The question was not hostile. It was genuine. And as undesirable as the conversation was, Auguste had anticipated nothing else. Of course they would have to talk about it at some point. It had been two years. He lowered his head and gently placed the bowl on the floor.

“You left,” he said, gingerly.

Cornelia knew exactly what he meant. “The war was over,” she said.

“Yes, but you just… left.” He raised his eyes to meet hers. “Without a word.”

“I sent you my letter of resignation,” she rebutted. “The war was over. I was a free civilian.”

“Of course you were.” Auguste shook his head empathetically. “You have served this kingdom more than any other in our generation. But that isn’t what I am talking about.”

This time, it was Cornalia who lowered her head. Auguste waited with patience, watching her play absently with the soft fur underneath them. He had spent two years worth of sleepless nights theorising about the possible reasons of Cornelia’s sudden departure. Waiting all night for her to tell him her reasons did not sound bad at all.

Cornelia did not raise her eyes. “When we returned to Arles after the final battle, I felt like I had slain so many that I could never do anything else except kill. I couldn’t recognise my hands when I looked down at them. I couldn’t recognise my own reflection,” she said, and inhaled deeply as though frightened that her voice would break. “The palace was the exact same and I was anything but that. It almost made me sick to look at the floral wallpaper of the chamber I had grown up in when all my eyes had seen in years was blood and fire. I couldn’t stand it.” Then, she shrugged, almost wistfully, and continued, “And your mother was dead. My place at the palace was always at her discretion. Without Queen Hennike, I wasn’t exactly welcome to reside in the palace anymore.”

Auguste could not hold his tongue. “That is not true.”

Cornelia looked up at him. “Your father never liked to see me except on the battlefield.”

“My father died a fortnight after the war.”

Silence fell heavily.

“I know,” she said, quietly. “I am sorry.”

Auguste knew that King Arelon disliked Cornelia. Or rather, he disliked the _idea_ of Cornelia: A charming, capable woman of low birth who spent a great deal of time with the princes. Aleron feared what had already happened: that she would gain an intimate influence over Auguste and Laurent. What he failed to see was that her influence was anything but malicious. In his final years, the old king was always full of fear.

“No,” Auguste shook his head, “I am sorry that my father made you feel unwelcome. That you had to bear the weight of a war that could have been prevented.” And with a throbbing heart, he said, “I am sorry that I didn’t see how you felt when we returned to Arles.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Cornelia groaned. “You couldn’t have possibly attended to all your soldiers’ feelings.”

Auguste felt his blood grow cold. He was suddenly hyper-aware of the weight of the blankets on his shoulders; of the heat tingling the side of his face. His heart clawed at his chest.

“Lia,” he said softly.

Cornelia’s shoulders stiffened at the sound of the nickname Auguste had given her years ago. Her eyes widened at him with a terrified wonder. Auguste would give anything to be allowed to reach out and wrap his arms around her then.

“You were never just a soldier to me,” he said. “Never.”

Cornelia suddenly looked pale, terrified. “I know,” she gritted out. “That’s not what I meant— I just—” Her dark brows pulled together. “Don’t fucking apologise to me when it was I who— _left_.”

Auguste shook his head. “I don’t blame you for leaving.”

“I don’t _care—_ ”

“I missed you,” Auguste cut her off before she could curse her way out of speaking with him. Cornelia froze, her mouth opened but nothing came out, so Auguste continued, “I missed you. That’s all. That’s the reason I’m here,” he said, softer this time. “I’m not here to reprimand you.You were my best friend. Hell, you were my _family_. And to be honest, I haven’t thought of you differently since. You’re still my best friend, you’re still my family and—” His brows drew together, fingers gripping at the blankets. “Gods, I cannot stop thinking about all those times I carried you to the tents with your blood all over me because _you’d saved my life_. I never got to say thank you.”

He stopped himself there. He didn’t tell her that he had planned to court her after the war, properly, openly, and despite his father’s disapproval. That their little _flings_ had always meant far more to him that he had let on. He didn’t tell her that as King, he had only ever thought of achieving three goals: to return order, peace, and prosperity to Vere; to protect Laurent from ever having to fight in a war; and to make Cornelia the happiest person in the Four Kingdoms.

“I missed you, too,” Cornelia said with her eyes lowered and in a voice laid bare and defenseless. A voice she rarely let anyone hear.

Auguste let her voice sink in. A myriad of joy and regret crashed through him. “I’m here now,” he whispered and smiled when Cornelia glanced at him with tender hesitation.

She nodded and bit her lip habitually. “When will you leave?”

“I must be back at the village the day after tomorrow by high noon.”

Cornelia nodded again, contemplatively, hugging her knees more tightly for a moment before shuffling to rise, hissing a little as she straightened her left leg.

Auguste frowned. “Did something happen to your—”

“It’s late,” she said. “You should get some rest before you pass out and die.”

Auguste snorted, “I won’t pass out and _die_.”

“You had better not,” she huffed. “I really cannot be bothered with a dead king in my house.” She then nodded towards the bed. “You can take the bed. It’s more comfortable than it looks.”

Auguste shook his head determinedly. “I think I’ll be quite content sleeping right here near the fire.” He patted down on the soft fur. “Clearly, this is the superior spot.”

Cornelia rolled her eyes but a small smile crept onto her lips. “Suit yourself.”

That night, Auguste lay down next to the fireplace with a soft pillow under his head and warm layers of blankets securely wrapped around him. On the other end of the room, Cornelia was buried under the sheets in her bed, leaving only the back of her raven head visible to Auguste. The wind howled outside the cottage and the branches sang along assuredly. Auguste watched Cornelia’s blanket rise and fall slowly with her breaths until his lids were too heavy to hold. For the first time in months, he did not wake until morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading! Please bear with me if I take a bit long to update. :)


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